Strange Wind
by axis-kill
Summary: Edited for HBP and continued: Neville picks up a strangely familiar doll from a trio of strangely familiar women. As is with all tragedies, life must go on. And for some, that life is due to become rather interesting.
1. Chapter 1

"**Strange Wind"  
By Rage**

Chapter 1

There was a tradition in their house. Every year, when the summer's arrival was signaled by the wash of browning grassy patches spotting across the front lawn and the aromatic smell of burning meat on hot coals, Neville's grandmother would don her pink hair curlers, prop her blue veined feet up on the kitchen table and demand her pickled lettuce. They never had any in the house, of course. Her shouts would rouse Neville from his tangle of sweat soaked sheets and once he managed to stumble blurry-eyed into the garishly wallpapered room, she'd shove a handful of money into his hands, ordering him to get her some.

"Make sure the edges aren't browning."

She said the same words every time. "Go buy my pickled lettuce, boy, and make sure it hasn't rotted. Spotty, brown edges means the pickling has gone sour, y'hear?" A whole jar, beeswax sealed and 5-pounds heavy, cost no more than a few knuts.

She usually gave him several galleons. Neville grinned happily to himself despite the stifling heat, glass jar tucked safely under his arm. Yellow brine and floating green bits sloshed around at each bounding step he took. He only needed to drop it off and then he would have the rest of the day to himself.

He breathed in deeply. He could smell sweat, smoke and frying dough, its sugary scent mixing with a multitude of other faint smells wafting towards him from a distance. Neville jogged the last few steps to the house and yanked the door open with a single jerky movement, impatient to be on his way.

The Faire had come to town.

* * *

Neville swerved to the side just in time to avoid crashing into a man carrying a tray laden with steaming sausage links. By the midday, the crowd had swelled to impressive numbers, sending him onto the edges of the trampled dirt path to avoid being stepped on. Neville didn't quite understand why there were so many, so early, but with the revelation of Voldemort's return fresh on the public's mind, he supposed that a bit of determined escapism was the order of the day. He was doing much the same himself, and it was with a firm refusal to think of anything beyond his own enjoyment that he trod trod on to elbow past all who stood in his way.

A sticky bun clutched protectively against his chest, Neville worked himself from one sweaty huddle to another, fighting for the chance to see at least some of what was being offered at various booths. Despite being more strenuous and potentially painful, it was still preferable to hopping up and down for a glimpse of nothing more than the backs of people's heads.

He swung his head as he heard a small yelp nearby. He rather thought that he might have treaded on the toes of a fellow Hogwarts student, but as it was not someone whose name he knew – and he wasn't even sure if he _had_ stepped on him – Neville didn't do more than mutter a quick apology. Swept along in whatever direction the heaving mass of bodies shoved him, Neville wriggled and kicked until, after a near eye poking by a passing wand, he was spat out in front of a long red tent. The large sign, ornately painted in glittery color-changing paint, proudly declared it to be "Destiny's Shoppe of Necessary".

Despite the hive-like quality the swarming mass of Faire goers exhibited in their pushing and shoving as they jostled for any available fingers-length of maneuvering space, there was a meter's square of empty, almost untouched grass in front of the invitingly open flap. Perhaps it could have been a sort of modified repulsion charm, but that didn't explain why Neville was standing there, nervously fingering a partially squashed sticky bun.

Or why he was the _only _one standing there.

A small prickle of alarm tiptoed down his back. Everything seemed perfectly harmless save for this one minor, if rather ominous, detail which triggered his internal safety meter—a meter that was well honed from sharing living space with some of the most trouble magnetic boys at Hogwarts.

Neville tossed a look behind him. Surely someone out of all those people would notice if evil was afoot. He quickly shoved aside the niggling thought that perhaps _he_ was the one that was supposed to notice and raise the alarm.

No. It was perfectly harmless, and _he_ was going to break out with a nice show of Gryffindor will, and _he _ was going to walk into the strange tent, perhaps even going so far as to buy something from whatever mysterious wares they were selling. Unless, of course, it did actually turn out to be a Death Eater trap, in which case, he would run screaming for help.

Buoyed by a temporary burst of vigor inspired by twelve sticky buns and four sweetmeats-on-a-sticks, Neville fingered his new (he still thought of his wand as new, even if it's been long enough to scuff the handle already) wand and brushed by the garishly shimmering sign and marched right on in.

No more than three paces into the tent, Neville found himself accosted by a pair of breasts. Backpedaling rapidly, Neville soon realized the breasts were attached to a young woman. Though, he thought, blinking rapidly, it certainly wasn't any sort of woman his grandmother would approve.

"Hello!" she trilled, waggling her jewel encrusted fingers at him.

Neville nodded back dumbly. While she was not someone who could be placed on the same level of – say – Fleur Delacour, she certainly made a strong impact on the senses. She wore an array of brightly colored scarves and wide, sweeping skirts held up underneath by mountainous layers of lace. And baubles. Many, many shining baubles of gold and silver dangly bits and semi-precious stones. Her embroidered, crimson bodice was laced so tightly that Neville had to wonder how she was able to breathe, but perhaps that was the effect she hoped to achieve. With each breath she managed to force, her more interesting parts quivered and shook, threatening the sort of eruption Neville's sixteen-year old mind couldn't help but wistfully hope for and hormonally approve.

In an expansive gesture eerily reminiscent of Gilderoy Lockhart, she tossed her riotous mass of blond curls over her bare shoulders and spread her arms out wide. "Welcome, Neville Longbottom, to your Destiny!" she exclaimed breathily.

Neville's mind helpfully pointed out a second Ominous Minor Detail: She knew his name and he hadn't said a thing.

Neville took a wary step back.

"Stop pointing your tits at the boy and get on with it!" a voice croaked out.

It was then that Neville noticed there were others in the tent with them. To the left, seated in a rickety rocking chair, was a shriveled prune of a woman who glared at him with rheumy eyes. Her thinning white hair was tied back messily with a bit of black ribbon.

"Oh, do let her have her fun. It isn't often she has the chance to play a bit."

Neville swung around and to the right, behind a table of raggedy stuffed crups, stood a plain, plump woman whose kind expression strongly reminded him of those matronly figures one could often find adorning the label on boxes of dish soap. The buxom woman standing before him sniffed haughtily as she tugged at her bodice, sending her flesh into another set of ripples. "Well, Neville," she said, "_I_ am Lady Fortuna–" She glared at the old woman who snorted. "–And I will be your, shall I say, _guide_ today."

"G-guide?" Neville looked around the tent at the various overflowing tables around him and, to his relief, he saw a couple other boys picking their way through a pile of items a few yards away. "Guide for what?"

A clinging waft of spicy perfume wrapped around him as she slid near enough to place one finely manicured hand on his shoulder. "Why, to find what you most need to fulfill your destiny!" She spoke with studied flair. "That is why this is called Destiny's Shoppe of Necessary. I made-up the name." She winked.

Feeling intimidated, Neville leaned away as much as he could without being insulting. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as he did so.

"Oh, Fortuna, you've just plain confused him," the matronly woman clucked disapprovingly. She had moved from behind her table and beamed a gentle, reassuring smile at him. "There is absolutely nothing to fear. And it costs so very little. Almost a formality, really. Once the choice is made, you will be free to go."

A silence fell, broken only by the creaking of the rocking chair and a faint tinkling of metal on metal as Fortuna brushed at her hair with an irritated flick of the wrist. Her bangles slid up and down her arm with each small movement.

Neville hadn't remembered asking about money, but now that she mentioned it… he wet his lips with his tongue and asked, "Cost? I don't have much money left, and--"

"Oh, none of I _that /I _ dear." The matron laughed, shaking her head. "You just go and have a look at the tables. We can't name a price if we don't know what you need." She gently gripped his shoulders and nudged him towards the nearest table. "Just pick what you want."

Thinking that what he really wanted was to get out of there as soon as possible, Neville blindly reached out for the first object at hand. Almost as if she could read his mind, the old woman in the rocking chair rasped out harshly, "It's not so easy boy. Unless you're sure you're destined to be a woman?"

He realized that he was moments away from latching onto a black, lacy brassiere. Neville gulped and shook his head, pulling his sweating hand back. "No? I-I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understand."

"Hmph. That much is obvious."

"Hildar!" the matronly woman said sharply. Neville decided that he liked her better than the other two. She turned to him. "Neville, the process is much like picking a wand. What is it that dear Mr. Ollivander says about that?"

"That... that it's not the person who chooses the wand–"

"It's the wand who chooses the person." finished Fortuna. She brushed at an invisible bit of dirt on her skirt. "Come with me, Neville. We'll just have a look-around and you'll know when you find what it is you need." She clamped a surprisingly strong hand onto his elbow and hauled him forwards.

Gulping, he shot one last look over his shoulder at the matron who made small encouraging gestures in his direction. With Fortuna pulling him, he stumbled along with a definite sense of unease; he half expected a clock to open up and suck him into some black vortex, or for one of the ragged looking stuffed bears to leap up and try to bite off his nose. (Thanks to Weasley twins' constant inventiveness, it wouldn't be the first time.) When no such thing happened, Neville allowed himself to relax somewhat, taking a more active interest in the things littering the tent. Nearly everything was worn down or – while not necessarily broken –looked somehow used. A dog-eared book here, a rusty tea kettle there. A mid-sized cuckoo clock without the cuckoo. A cracked chair leg. He was certain the situation held significant meaning, but it was the sort of thing Hermione would puzzle out with enjoyment. For Neville, it only confused him further.

He paused in his inspection of a cracked mirror when Fortuna suddenly came up behind him and held something up against his back.

"Here, turn around."

When he did so, Neville saw that Fortuna was holding an extremely bright, and rather flashy jacket that had at one point been covered in sequins and beads (half had fallen off).

"Well? Any light-headedness? Feeling like you've been hit by lightning?" Neville shook his head and peered down at the jacket.

"What _is_ it?"

"This? Oh, young muggle men wear them in Spain when they chase mad bulls around in a stadium." At the horrified expression on Neville's face, she tossed it back onto the table behind her and wiggled her way to another one. A few moments later she held up a pair of scuffed, thigh-high boots with extremely tall heels. "These? "

"No," he said with assurance. She shrugged, dropped them, and began pawing her way through a pile of worn trousers.

It was in this way that they continued to meander through the lines of tables, with Fortuna occasionally holding up an object and Neville fervently rejecting it. As time passed at a crawl and each new item was brandished under his nose, Neville kept waiting, hoping for a giveaway flare of light, or perhaps a tinkle of bells, or even a chorus of heavenly voices. He was beginning to feel as if he would never find whatever it was the women said he needed and that he would be trapped in their tent indefinitely. In his growing frustration, and hunger, – he was eating quite a lot since he started growing – he tripped on his own left foot and knocked into the corner of the table, sending a bent fire poker and a great lot of warped silverware to the ground with an embarrassingly loud crash.

He immediately yelped out apologies and dropped to his hands and knees, fingers scrabbling at fallen items, hoping he hadn't damaged them any more than they had already been.

It was then that he saw it. Bundled up under the table, wedged between a wooden leg and one of the fallen carry cases, was a bit of brightly colored cloth. He thought it was a particularly interesting tea towel at first, the colors and garishly floral pattern reminding him of the kitchen wallpaper his grandmother refused to change, but when he pulled it free, he was relieved to discover that it was wrapped around something more substantial. He wouldn't have liked to discover that his destiny meant he was to become a house elf!

He hesitated a moment, then glanced around. Fortuna was wrestling with a large wheeled hook thing that had snarled on her hair, while the two other women were standing near the entrance, waving to a wizard he had seen rustling around one of the other tables. He stuffed his almost forgotten sticky bun into his front shirt pocket and wiped his hand on his pant leg before he cautiously peeled back the fraying cloth. In his hand, he held one of the most finely detailed and crafted dolls he had ever seen. He tilted it this way and that under the glow of one of the wizard lights floating nearby, running a finger over familiar sharp features and lank hair. Even the pasty, yellowed tones of the velvety material used to create its eerily true-to-life skin were identical to the unhealthy paleness in his memory. The doll was a perfect reproduction of the one man he feared almost as much as, and in some ways more than, Voldemort. The Great Betrayer and Murdered of Headmaster Dumbledore – Severus Snape, ex-Potions Master of Hogwarts.

Why anyone of obviously high skill would _want_ to spend time creating something in the man's likeness was beyond him. He ran his finger through its hair, noting how he couldn't find where it was sewn on. He didn't think it was one of those hexing dolls. It was the only purpose he could conceive of for creating such a likeness—but to stick it full of pins and set it on fire would be a terrible waste of craftsmanship. Unless that was the sort of thing those spells required. He frowned. Neville really didn't know much about those areas of magics, but from the few misshapen looking figures in his textbook, there didn't seem to be any relation between those and this. He wiggled the doll around, testing the bend on its arms and legs. The articulation in the hidden joints was incredible. They moved exactly like the real thing.

How strange, he mused, that such an ugly, hateful man could be rendered almost beautiful in miniature. And beautiful the doll was.

The only imperfection was the smear of blue paint that ran along the side of the doll's face, down its jaw line and under its collar. He tried scraping at it with his fingernail when he suddenly frowned. He could have sworn... Yes. There it was again. He nearly dropped the doll as he felt it unmistakably _shift_ in his hand. Almost as if it had moved. Without him moving it.

Then the doll opened its eyes.

Ink black.

An all too familiar glare.

And within them, was a depth that was close enough to alive that this time, Neville _did_ drop it and unashamedly leapt back, yelling as he whipped his wand out. He scrabbled backwards onto another table, uncaring of how many objects he knocked over and broke as long as he could put distance between himself and that... that... _thing_.

"Neville?"

The three women rushed towards him, the old woman frog-leaping an overturned cauldron with a surprising amount of athleticism.

"I-I-I..." He tried again. "It..." Nothing came out of his frantically flapping mouth so he settled for second best and pointed energetically at the floor with his wand, hoping that it was still lying there and it hadn't gotten up and followed him when he leaped for safety.

Frowning in confusion, the three women looked down at their feet. A sweet, wide smile broke out across the matron's face as she bent down to pick up the doll. Neville gained enough control over his tongue to yelp a muddled warning. Ignorant of her life threatening danger, she said benignly. "I see you've found your match."

"I... d-did?" Neville stuttered. Then froze. "No! Wait! _That_?" He gestured wildly at her hand.

She nodded and handed the doll to him. It took all his strength to not scream and throw it back at her. The old woman cackled, revealing a lot more gum than teeth. "An interesting match, boy. And much better choice than before. You'd have made a hideous woman."

"But...but I don't have anything to pay with! I can't take this!" Neville yelped.

The old woman grinned and said uncooperatively, "I like sticky buns." Neville stared blankly at her. She bobbed her head in what he assumed was a cheerful manner and, before he knew it, gnarled fingers were pulling a lint covered sticky bun from his pocket.

"Hildar has a bit of a sweet tooth. Even though she has no teeth," Fortuna said, stretching her toned arms over her head and thrust her bosom out aggressively. Neville was in no state to appreciate.

"But..." he began.

"We said that you could go after you found your item."

"I can't--"

"Contrary to some very, _very_ vicious rumors, we _do _ keep our promises."

"I--"

"Have a good time with your new toy, boy-o!"

Before he could utter another protest, Neville found himself hustled off the table and out the open flap into the still crowded Faire grounds. When he regained his footing, he was startled to see that the sun was already beginning to set, the dimming light washing everything with a gentle orange glow. He hadn't realized he had been inside the tent for so long.

When he looked behind, over his shoulder, he wasn't surprised to find "Destiny's Shoppe of Necessary" vanished, a broken down wheelbarrow with an artful display of wildflowers taking its place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Neville crashed through the kitchen, pausing only long enough to acknowledge his grandmother with a quick "I'm back!" as he charged by and up the stairs. He flew into his room and slammed the door shut behind him. Then, he ripped the towel wrapped doll from his robe pocket, threw it onto the bed with one hand, and drew his wand with the other. Several long moments passed, broken only by the thudding of his heart in his ears and the harsh sound of his breathing as he tried to get his wind back.

Nothing moved.

Edging closer, he prodded the bright bundle with the tip of his wand and immediately leapt back again.

Still nothing.

Frowning, he strode to his bed. With his wand ready in one hand, he grasped a corner of the tea towel. A fortifying breath later, he pulled. The doll rolled free, fell onto the covers with it arms and legs akimbo, and lay in its awkward position without complaint. It didn't even appear to twitch as he poked at it a few more times.

Feeling sheepish, Neville re-pocketed his wand. He gingerly lifted the doll, brushing at stray bits of dust on its greasy hair and robes. Whoever had made the thing had even gone to the lengths of making its hair _greasy_. And his fingers were still sticky from the bread glaze. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he again admired the doll's delicately detailed features. He didn't know how long he spent wiggling tiny yellow limbs about, testing the articulation with a strange budding joy he hadn't felt since he was a young boy with an inherited toy house and little toy creatures with attachable bits, when his grandmother calling up the stairs startled him.

"Yes, gran?"

"Come help me with the supper! I expect you to eat, even though you've more than likely spoilt your appetite on sweets!"

"I'm coming!" Before heading downstairs, he gently placed the doll on his desk in a seated position. It was about the length of his hand from wrist to a bit past his middle finger and propped easily against his books. As an afterthought, he scooped the floral patterned cloth off his bed and deposited it across the doll's lap as a blanket. The glowing orange, red and white flowers brightened little Snape's countenance, giving his 'skin' a much healthier glow. "There," he mumbled, "All comfortable. You just stay there, I'll be back."

Then he was out the door, which he closed behind him, and noisily clattered down the stairs. Mrs. Longbottom's only response to her grandson's rowdiness was a sharp, reproving look as she handed him several clean, white plates. She had a host of expressions and Looks that hit with the force of a bludger to the face, but repetitive exposure had rendered Neville largely numb.

"I assume that you enjoyed yourself?"

Neville set the plates down at each end of the small square table. He nodded. He wasn't lying; he _had_ enjoyed himself immensely until things went a bit strange, and even that, wasn't so much disturbing as…hallucinatory. Like when he had that accident with a certain breed of hopping, rainbow-coloured mushroom he promised to never go near again.

"Good."

He settled back in his seat, only to have to stand again so that he could grab a covered dish from the procession slowly circling through the air overhead. It looked like they were having stew and dumplings for dinner.

"You are awfully quite for someone who just recently ran through here as if dementors were on his tail," remarked Mrs. Longbottom after filling her plate, "Did something happen?"

Neville swallowed a mouthful of boiled meat. "No, nothing." He finally said. "Nothing more than usual." She didn't seem convinced. There was a small sound of metal scraping on metal as she shifted her grip and one of the many rings on her wrinkled hand scraped against the silver of her spoon. "Really. Well, there was this one thing."

He stuttered his way through a slightly exaggerated story involving ten pounds of chocolate, several drunken townsmen, and someone's escaped pet poultry. As his half made up tale eventually wound to an admittedly lame end, he saw the look his grandmother was giving him. He never could lie convincingly without stuttering. But since she didn't ask, he didn't bother to elaborate. He tried to continue with some other event he'd overhead in bits and pieces when he left for home, but that one eventually petered to a garbled end before he'd gotten very far along in the telling. Gran stared hard at him overtop her spectacles. Neville stared down at his dumplings and the rest of the dinner passed in silence.

* * *

By the time Neville remembered about the doll the next morning, he found it where he'd left it on his desk, knocked over onto its side from the surprising draft during the night. He promptly forgot about it again over lunch, as his grandmother cursed loudly. 

Startled, Neville dropped food in his lap. Mrs. Longbottom shoved the Daily Prophet at him. A copy of the Quibbler sat atop several other publications that they subscribed to. "There's been a break from Azkaban and that pretty little rat, Lucius Malfoy, is one of the ones _not_ missing. No one can seem to decide whether this means he really might have been set up, or he just got left behind. Or maybe the breakout was for some other group of idiot killer criminals that happen to share membership with the Death Eaters." Whatever good spirits he'd had left over from the Faire evaporated. He grabbed a napkin to scrub at the grease on his trousers. "And seems that they haven't found that Snape fellow yet, either. How difficult is it to find one man? Especially someone with mean looks like his?"

"I t-think he might be a bit harder to catch than some. Especially since now he isn't likely to want to be found."

His grandmother gave Neville a hard look. "What was that, boy? I can't hear you!" she barked loudly.

"I was just thinking that a man like Prof—like Snape is, well, I bet he's the sneaky type and finding him mightn't be so easy. That's all," Neville said while shoveling some egg about the plate with his toast. Severus Snape was a terrifying, bullying bastard, but he was not unintelligent. The fact that Hermione had at one point held some sort of respect for the man was testament to that. Unlike the others, however, Neville was surprised to find that Snape was also a murderer. Perhaps it was all the years telling himself that bullies were effectively impotent, forever unable to perform those things they threatened to do—he'd never have had the strength to go to classes at all, otherwise-- but to find out the man in his nightmares really _was_, no, _is_ a sadistic…horrible… not-impotent… murderer terrified him. Uncomfortable, Neville tried to shift the conversation elsewhere. "What about Malfoy?"

"What?" Mrs. Longbottom repeated. "What was that? I already said he's still in Azkaban!"

"Not that one, the other one. Draco, his… his son."

"Oh, him? Not a word about it. The wife's been up and down denying she knew anything, saying the boy's been kidnapped. Doing a damn good job of convincing everyone too. Well, the important everyones." There was a hint of admiration in his grandmother's voice as she appraised the Malfoy family photo that was plastered front and center across the paper.

"Beautiful thing, isn't she? She's got the poise to pull it off, too, if she's careful. Reminds me a bit of your mother."

Everyone reminded her of his parents. Neville bit his lip. "Are you saying the Malfoys are like—"

"Not at all," Mrs. Longbottom boomed. "That Lucius is a bit of girl next to Frank, and don't you think otherwise."

Not wishing to think of his parents, or the Malfoys, or anything related to Snape, Neville turned back to his now cold eggs.

For Neville, the week following the Faire ended with the same sort of blur a person gets when spending a lot of absorbed time away from a calendar or timepieces. Buried as he was in cabbage and adolescent mandrake, the calling of his stomach for meals or tea was the only reason he had any concept of time at all.

Neville balanced a currant-studded biscuit on the edge of his saucer as his Gran silently read the papers. It seemed that whenever he returned to the house proper, she was reading the paper, her wrinkled mouth pulled into a moue of distaste. At the moment, however, she was chuckling quietly to herself. As he waited, Neville held his cup by the saucer as he waited for the little self-refilling cream pot to finish emptying itself into his tea for him. Soon enough, his Gran nodded and put the papers down. It was the Independent this time. Upside down, Neville saw a little of the main headline—something to do with a sudden rise in British wizards taking vacations abroad. He caught a quick glimpse of long blond hair in a photo at the bottom of the page but before he could see what it was, it was obscured by his Gran's dripping teacup. A brown ring formed instantly beneath her cup as liquid seeped into the paper.

"Rats fleeing a plague city," she grunted. Neville cautiously tugged at the corner of the paper, pulling it slowly from under his grandmother's cup. He frowned as he saw the second column did indeed involve with the Malfoys. It was impossible to read, however, as all the text bled and ran together from the tea. The attractively lit photograph of Lucius Malfoy sneered and edged away from the growing brown stain. "Fools. Do they think that if they leave, danger won't eventually follow?"

Neville looked up. "Maybe they're just sending their families out and staying themselves? Didn't people talk about doing the same when the muggles were sending their children out during that big war of theirs?"

Gran snorted skeptically. "Don't try to be diplomatic. They're running, plain as day."

After a moment, Neville asked nonchalantly, "And the Malfoys?"

Gran blinked and then picked her cup up to look down at the irreparably blurred text. She began to chuckle again. "We'll see," she rasped, sounding quite amused.

* * *

Hermione threw down her copy of the Independent. "Disgusting!" Both Harry and Ron looked over at her, food still dangling from their mouths. Puberty, a lack of anything to do and an overabundance of charmed-fresh supplies ensured that they were constantly camped in the kitchen. "Look!" she said, pointing. "Just look at that, and they call themselves a higher minded, alternative piece of news to the Prophet, and they're no different than _every_ other paper that has the Malfoys somewhere on the front page! This is news?" Ron immediately leaned over the table, twisting his head around to read the text she was pointing at. 

"What? Oh, what is it this time? They're in 'discussion'? What's there to discuss? The father's evil, the son's evil, and the wife's just as completely rotten!"

"Now that the Ministry has finally admitted that Voldemort exists, it seems that the only thing anyone is interested in is how Lucius Malfoy manages to keep his hair clean in Azkaban!"

Ron squinted, reading slowly while Hermione's long hair moved frantically overtop the pages as she gestured with her hands, "Proposed radical changes in law enforcement and detention…Malfoys spearhead movement to highlight prison abuses and a growing need for clear, concise guidelines regarding detainees, their legal status and counsel, and their sentencing… Preliminary reports show overwhelming support from prominent members of both the national and international communities------" His brow wrinkled as he stopped and stared. "What? Over the Malfoys? Where was all this support when Sirius Black…" He broke off as Harry suddenly slammed his mug down on the tabletop hard enough to rattle dishes. Harry silently climbed to his feet and stalked out of the kitchen.

Hermione chewed her lip as she watched him go. Aside from the frightening rage that Harry had exhibited initially after…events at the end of the school year. Dumbledore's death. No, Hermione chided herself, Dumbledore's _murder_.

Ron tapped Hermione's arm, his freckles standing out more than usual on his face. "Don't worry. He'll come out of it eventually. He's done it before."

Hermione sighed, "Yes, but it took him an entire school year then. I don't want to have to wait so long while we're all trapped in here without anywhere to go and barely anything to do. I have studying, but everyone pacing around is nearly enough to drive me mad!"

Ron smiled, though he still seemed strained, and he kept glancing towards the doorway that Harry had left through, "Yes, well. If they'd only let us outside. It doesn't even have to be far. Just to that bit of green in the back. Looking at it from a window and not even being able to stick my head out is _killing_ me. I swear, the grass looks greener every time I look!"

Hermione shook her head, amusement finally creeping past her discomfort, "Oh Ron. You need to stop looking. The grass can only get so green and then it'll brown and I will have to deal with you turning into a big sad lump over it."

They both smiled at each other, hesitant, small smiles that curled at the corners of their lips until a door slammed loudly upstairs. Several doors. And the sound of things thumping on the ground. All smiles gone, Ron slid his chair back and climbed to his feet, the strained look appearing on his face again. "I'll go and check on him, alright?" Hermione began to stand as well, determined to follow.

"No," Ron said, still facing the door.

It had been said with such finality that Hermione automatically sat back down. Then, blinking, she was back on her feet, protesting. "Ron—"

"No," he repeated. "This… We'll call it a… _matter between men_, alright? I'll go."

'Matter between men? _Boys _.' thought Hermione derisively. But she still relented and with a small sigh, slid back into her chair.

She picked up the newspaper again as she worriedly watched Ron slip out the kitchen. Sitting for a few minutes and no longer able to focus enough to read any longer, Hermione eventually stood, the back of her knees shoving her chair back along the kitchen's paneled floors with a low, long moan of wood on polish. An appropriated mug of tea in hand, and the _Independent_ in the other, she made her own way out of the kitchen. She nearly walked into Ginny in the tiny, dingy hallway.

Hermione spilled tea on herself. "Ow!" Ginny turned her perplexed gaze from the ceiling to Hermione. Her freckles created interesting constellations as she scrunched her nose. Hermione fought the urge to poke a particularly dark spot on Ginny's left cheek and instead scrubbed at the droplets landing on the floor with her socked foot.

"What was that? I heard the noise from the other side of the house."

Hermione sighed. "That's because the house is the size of a shoebox, and you can poke your fingers through the wall if you're not careful." They both turned their gazes up to the ceiling as low, thumping sounds reverberated through the walls. _Thunk, thunk_. It sounded like school books were being thrown. There was the sound of voices. Then, ominously, there was the sound of nothing. Both girls stood in the hall, necks craned upwards, Hermione's hand still dripping tea onto her foot.

"I'm going up," said Ginny. She pushed past Hermione who turned sideways and put her back up against the hall's closet door to give her the space to get by. As Ginny marched up the stairs, each step creaking loudly, the handrail wobbled dangerously. Hermione followed and opened her mouth to warn her about the boys, but as she got to the first step of the stairs, a door on the second landing opened, light streaming into the dark hall from the more numerous and larger windows in the bedrooms upstairs. Red hair glinted almost gold in the sudden light. Hermione's jaw clicked shut as she watched Ron allow his sister into the room. The door closed quietly.

As much as she understood that, at the moment, a New-Girlfriend-and-real-sister would be better welcome to the boys than a nagging-sister-figure-plus-ex-who-started-the-whole-argument, Hermione still found herself fighting down a stinging surge of jealousy. She stared up the stairs at the closed door for a few moments as she debated whether or not to go up, and eventually, instead, turned to wander back to towards the kitchen. Past the kitchen, she went to the empty library full of shelves with no books and a lot of dust. There was a single square of bright, bright light in the dark, dark room, revealing that the plush carpeting had ugly, swirling floral patterns that changed colors arbitrarily like a kaleidoscope.

Hermione sat by the window, the mug of now cold tea cradled in her hands. She stared out at the small front yard where the grass did indeed look greener since the last hundred times she'd seen it. '_I hope someone brings the books they said they would. Soon.' _ she thought. Hermione turned back to the newspaper to reread it for the third time since it had arrived that morning.

She frowned.

How _did_ Lucius Malfoy keep such beautiful hair while in Azkaban?

Hermione self-consciously fingered her own dry, frazzled locks. His sneering photograph was as forthcoming as the silence emanating from upstairs.

* * *

**Note**_Oh wow. It's been long enough that I'm surprised at all the format changes for ffnet. No double spaces, symbols, or presentation elements? I would have liked a little more space between dividers... Anyway. This story was started long enough ago that my previous betas are gone and you know how well self-editing goes. If there are any errors, please let me know. And also, PLEASE tell me if the books mention Neville's grandmother's name? I can't seem to recall..._


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